I love the books he shares with me,
hate that I see them referenced everywhere.
I love that he’s so playful,
hate that it’s only a game.
I love the charm he wears around his neck,
hate how charmed I am by its rhythmic clinking.
I love the wrinkles by his eyes,
hate the wrinkle she put in things.
I love how much he tells me,
hate what I now know.
I love the truth (I love him),
hate the lie (it’s nothing).